


sun down on the sorry day

by lannistering



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Incest, Infidelity, Murder, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannistering/pseuds/lannistering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Game of Thrones AU. Reconstruction era Florida Wetlands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sun down on the sorry day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [houselannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/gifts).



> The moon shines in the autumn sky  
> Growin' cold, the leaves all die
> 
> After the fires, before the flood  
> My sweet baby, I need fresh blood

She sits perched with layered skirts beneath her; posture so refined she looks like a queen dipped in gold. One servant sits at her feet, scrubbing her long, graceful fingers that look so ethereal in their movement that Jaime thinks they must bring about the work of god. Or something much darker. The other stands just a half-step behind her, applying rouge to her cheeks, scarlet and deceiving. She has enough blood just beneath her skin (he means just; he’d seen once before how easily it’s freed despite the fortress she appears. But then he remembers she’d been holding the blade and had it been anyone else the task would’ve proved a feat) for the lot of them. They hate her but they worship her.

Cersei’s the only one that notices him enter, the other two fiddling away mindlessly while he watches the change in her gaze. From where he stands across the room he can hear her pulse escalate.

“That’s enough,” she snags her hand back, withdrawing it like she’d been scorched. “And you,” she snaps at the other, both of whom take two steps back.

“What would you like of us, madame?” Timid, a fawn that bows like prey. Jaime half expects Cersei to smile and lick her canines.

“I don’t. Now leave.” Lady of the manor suits her, more than their father’s fortune ever could have. In these moments her chin quivers - just once - before she leans back in her entirety and grips the arm rests in front of her. With a bang and a clatter they’re left alone; her features twitch again, this time with a smile. “What have you brought me today?”

Her thinly veiled excitement infects him.

\---

The war scorched the land for hundreds of miles, a barren wasteland no one’s bothered to rejuvenate. They must be careful, she insists on it; the swamps provide the perfect cover. She swats at the mist like a hoard of gnats, but it helps as much as it hinders. It dampens her skin and she can’t differentiate between the condensation and her own sweat. The layered cotton does her no good in the heat. Still, Cersei wants him to know who does it; she wants him to know.

This one he found on the road past the crossroads. He chose wrong. They have a chance to escape, they all do. Fate, he excuses. Jaime wonders if he should feel more guilt.

She likes him to go first.

Jaime makes a pass at him with his knife, the would-be screams nothing but muffled groans against his restraints. The act seems callous in execution, half-hearted in enthusiasm, driven by a need to please her. They are whole together in everything, especially this.

The second swipe opens up his belly, pours red onto Jaime’s hands and knocks the breath from him. His head throbs, his pulse quickens, but his grip is steady when he drives the blade into him again. Again. Again. With his heels sunken in mud and hands covered in blood, Jaime dips into mania with an invigorating surge. Cersei stands paces behind in a backdrop of fog.

With a grunt he ceases, having buried the blade to its hilt in the beggar’s diaphragm. He’s begun coughing, incessantly, gathering rage in Jaime to the point that he backhands him. Before he can even swing his hand back to its place Cersei’s tugged his elbow back furiously, forcing him a step back. “You’ve had your fill,” she complains. She’s right; what he starts she finishes.

He can’t see her face when she takes his throat between those porcelain hands, no dignity to the way she violently shakes the life from him. She’s as far gone as he is; they both have it, whatever it is. Jaime carelessly wipes his hands off on the side of his trousers.

When she turns back to him with the man limp behind her, she glows, life renewed. She needs no blush.

\---

Jaime likes this part best, the part they struggle to explain later. They don’t care about excuses now – not even Cersei; she cannot deny him after this. The toes of his boots sink into a puddle; there will be mud caked on the bottom of her skirts upon their return.

When he connects their mouths he notices how her hair clings, wet, to the back of her neck. It leaves a stain beneath her chin, unnoticed by him as he groans his entry. Like that they draw life from one another entirely different from what they’d just done. Now it’s an exchange, one breath for another, mixing themselves up into one until they split cells again.

\---

His finger curls into her mouth and she bites down in a flash, ceasing only when she’s drawn his blood. It mixes with the victim’s on her tongue while she rises, straightening her garments and transforming in a matter of moments back to regality. “A little salty,” she sends over her shoulder. “Younger next time.” Cersei doesn’t wait for him to follow her but he does.


End file.
